


Paradise

by ReyloBrit



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Angst, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, England (Country), F/M, Lady Chatterley's Lover inspired, Multi, Post-World War I, Sex, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, Smut, Wall Sex, adultery with permission, breylo - Freeform, consensual cuckolding, war injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReyloBrit/pseuds/ReyloBrit
Summary: Rey loves her husband, Ben Solo, but when an injury in the Great War leaves him unable to satisfy her, she is left frustrated. Then her husband hires a new groundman, Kylo Ren, and Rey's world changes."I've seen the way he looks at you."I look up from the letter I'm writing. I hadn't been aware Ben was watching me. He sits back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, rolling his spectacles between his fingers."Who?" I ask, putting down my pen, clear from the expression on his face this is some matter of importance."Ren."I start. It is all the confirmation he needs that I know what he means, but I pick up my pen anyway, scanning my eyes back over the page to find my place. "I have no idea-""I've seen you looking at him too."
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 23
Kudos: 185
Collections: The Perfect Date - Pink Ladies Spring Exchange





	Paradise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dankobah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dankobah/gifts).



> ***This is a Breylo fic but if you are here in the hope of a sexual threesome, I think it fair to warn you that that isn't the story. See tags***
> 
> For Dankobah - hope this fulfils your Breylo request!
> 
> Inspired by Paradise - Bazzi
> 
> Thank you to @starcrossreylo for the moodboard

White blossom drifts in the air around me as if time and space are suspended and the turn of the Earth frozen. I watch the slow tumbling progress of the petals, see some land on the desk I've moved into the garden, while others fall around my feet. The ground is a carpet of pinks and whites, the perfume gentle and sweet.

This could be Paradise, a safe cocoon far removed from the war and all its destruction. But only a short hop over the channel is France. 

And Ben. 

He's over there - deep in the Hell that lies beyond. The one keeping him from me.  
If I climbed the dark Down looming in the distance, I could see that thin strip of sea separating us glistening in the morning's light.

I try not to think of it, returning to the neat column's of my agent's accounts instead, checking the numbers and his calculations. Fortunately, the Estate ticks over, helped by the arrival of the military and their commandeering of the Manor House. But I run my eyes swiftly over the figures anyway, easily adding them in my head. Next I will examine the orders for the week and see what we can spare for the families in our care; the wives who have lost husbands, the children who have lost fathers.

I'm disturbed by the swing of the gate and the click of shoes on the stone path that winds around the back of the cottage. 

It's today's post. 

I bolt up. My skin suddenly cold and my heart thudding in my chest. My gaze drops to the ground and I wait in terror, pen still poised in mid air.

Because the footsteps are heavy, laboured. They are not the quick steps of the boy they usually send from the manor to deliver my correspondence.

It can mean only one thing.

A black pair of ankle boots cross the confetti of blossom, a dark menace against the pale flowers.

The housekeeper.

I raise my eyes slowly to Celia's face, pale as a ghost, and she hands me what I've been dreading the most. Her hand trembles. The brown envelope shakes.

When I take it from her, her fingers fly to cover her mouth and she watches me intently, as I replace my pen and pick up my silver letter opener, the one which once belonged to Ben's father. Hesitating for a moment, I then slide the sharp tip beneath the flap and rip open the paper with a shriek that makes Celia yelp.

I screw my eyes shut and remove the contents. I say a little prayer to the God I've never believed in, and open my eyes.

A telegram.

Letters typed uniformly across a brown slip of paper.

I fail to make my vision focus. The words blurred, refusing to be read. I grip the slip firmly in both hands as if wrestling forth the meaning. And finally the letters arrange themselves orderly.

Injured.

He's injured.

Just injured.

My shoulders sag in relief and a sob escapes my throat.

"My lady?" Celia asks quietly, "The master?"

"He's alive. Hurt - in an explosion - but alive."

Celia mutters a 'thanks be to God' her hands clasped against her chest.

Then she comes to engulf me in her arms, strong from a lifetime of domestic work, and I weep into her soft shoulder, as she rocks and hushes.

Two years ago it would never have been possible. A housekeeper and a lady gripping and comforting one another like this.

This War has changed everything for everyone, but here in my idyllic Spring Garden I could not have known how much it would change things for me.

…

Three years later

The flames in the fireplace flicker weakly casting long shadows across the drawing room, the clock on the mantelpiece ticks respectively, and outside in the darkness the breeze meanders around the creepers growing against the walls.

I sip my wine, twisting the ancient stem in my fingers as I try to read my book. I'm restless, and my eyes flit around the room, back to my neglected page, and then to Ben's face.

He is utterly consumed by his crossword, his paper folded in his lap, already devoured from front to back, and his brow creased above his spectacles with the mental effort of concentration.

I can't help smiling at it. Transported back to another time, when he'd frown with the physical effort of translifting us both to other worlds, of worshipping and pleasuring every part of me as I did him.

He looks up catching my eye and smiles, reaching across to squeeze my hand affectionately.

"Everything alright, Rey?"

"Yes," I reply, glancing away, guilty that I've let my mind mourn what's been lost. But I can't help it. I miss it. I miss him. His large hard body pressed against mine, the beat of his heart through his skin, his mouth wet on my neck, his hands gripping at my hips, his hardness deep within me. I miss it all so much that I ache . That I could scream, scratch at my face and pull at my hair.

Five years. Five long years it has been since he's lain with me.

He reaches into his breast pocket to retrieve the cap of his pen and replaces it with a click. Then rests it with his paper on the mahogany table to his arm and finishes the remaining dredges of his brandy. He yawns, setting the tumbler back down and reaching for the small silver bell.

"I will retire for the evening," he says, sweeping his hand through his short black locks.

I nod. We don't retire to bed together these days. No more racing up the stairs, pulling at each other's clothes, flinging ourselves on the mattress, our mouths devouring one another.

"Don't stay up too late, darling. You don't want to give yourself one of your headaches," he adds, with as much concern as chide.

Does he know what those headaches mean? How I creep to my room on the pretence of the need to rest, only to dream of him with my fingers buried inside my cunt?

He rings the bell and I stand, coming before him and bending down to kiss him chastely on the cheek.

He grips my wrist.

"I love you, Sunshine," he says. 

My lips are still pressed against his shaven skin and I close my eyes. "I love you too," I whisper and I mean it. He is my rock. My home. My everything. Nothing will ever change that.

Ours was an unconventional love affair - the heir to the manor and the orphan from nowhere. If his parents had been disappointed in his choice of bride they never showed it and while we endured the snide remarks and catty looks of others in society, they never uttered a cross word to me. Ben said they were simply pleased to see him settled and happy - me a calming influence to his turbulent troubled nature.

I still am. Holding him when the nightmares strike, reviving him when the terror overwhelms. He needs me, even if the need is different now.

A discreet cough from the doorway interrupts us and I straighten up.

It's Ben man.

"Sir?" he asks.

"I wish to retire, Hux." Ben tells him, his stare still fixed on me.

The man strides inside the room, his slick hair red like the fire. He bends low and scoops my husband into his arms. I look away, still finding it hard to watch after all these months. I listen to him stomp out into the hallway and up the staircase, carrying Ben, and I lose myself in the flames.

…

We met on a clear Spring morning on the brow of Black Down Hill, the ground encrusted with frost and a mist hanging in the grass, Ben emerging from the copse of trees, suddenly there on the path. Tall, strong, dark. His eyes like pools of molten rock, swirling, changing, tempting.

"It's you!" he said in wonderment.

And in my shock, I answered him, "I don't know you, Sir," I said before quickly collecting myself, searching my vision for a rock or a stick. My early life had taught me the dangers of strangers. And here was a young one - clearly wealthy, clearly dashing - not bound by the constraints of the rest of us.

He smiled softly, with no malice. "You work at the book shop."

I nodded, although I had no recollection of him. Mrs Holdo of the orphanage had been a good woman and all in her care had been well schooled. With my education, I'd escaped London as soon as I could for the peace of the coast and the green of the countryside.

And my existence here had been just that. Quiet. 

But as I walked with him, back down the steep banks of the Downs, through the sprawling ferns and under the young silver birches, he'd ignited something inside me that I did not know existed. A noise buzzing in my ears, a pulse racing in my blood and a tingle shooting across my skin. A longing to be touched in a way I'd never known before.

He sought me out the next week at the bookstore, returning again and then again. Buying books I'm sure he never read. I was wary at first, knowing I had no family, no good name to protect me, an easy prey. Slowly that caution faded. He made me smile. He made me laugh. He made me talk of my opinions and of my hopes.

And he took me out for tea, for drives in his motorcar, for strolls along the seafront, and walks across the Downs. He took me to the meadow and lay me down in the long grass, the scent of the wild flowers heady in the air, his hands scrabbling under my clothes as desperate to touch me as I was to touch him, his fingers stroking up my thighs and tripping below my underwear, exploring, making me buck and plead, begging him to give me release. It was reckless and I was reckless, happy to let him ruin me. Desperate to feel his hot mouth on my skin, to break the tension that had been rapidly building between us, like steam in a kettle, threatening to blow everything apart

With his beautiful fingers he played me, until stars shattered across my eyelids and the world around me vanished completely, a tingle sweeping through my body like the soft patter of rain.

After that there was no going back. Be damned with the consequences. I ached wantonly to have him inside, my whole body needing nothing but that, despite the bitter price I'd pay if the gamble failed. I had no illusions, I knew the risks. If he chose he could leave me destitute and wretched, and himself unharmed. One taste and he could have taken anything from me; I was a slave to this opium already. 

But so was he. Plunging inside, losing himself as his thrusts drove us to the edge of Paradise. It was something he could never get enough of, sedated only temporarily before seeking me out to have me again, taking me whenever and however he could, under the woods, in the stables, against the alleyway. 

We were addicted to it and to each other, the soreness of my skin and my body not enough to stop us, or the gossip that swirled.

His Uncle heard first, threatening to cut him off and disinherit him. But if the old recluse had hoped this would put an end to our affair, he was wrong. It only provoked Ben, made him decide that we would marry and damn the rest.

And so we did.

….

At breakfast things change again. 

I savour my hard boiled egg and toast. Dipping the strips of hardened bread into the shell and letting it soak up the warmed yolk.

Ben has finished his breakfast, toast with marmalade, his plate pushed to one side as he sorts through his letters. There's one that he reads intently, dirty paper, scrawled hand. He hovers over it for a long while, finally placing it down as I scrape the last of the white from my egg.

He pauses, then removes his little wire spectacles and tucks them inside his jacket, straightening his letters on the gleaming white table cloth.

I lower my spoon. I know he has something to tell.

"I'm hiring a new groundsman."

"Oh," I say, wondering why this is of importance. Now he's back, I've no longer a part in running the estate, resigned back to tea parties, social events and charity work. I don't mind. The work helps Ben - he needs the distraction.

"The man is a little rough around the edges." He shuffles the letters in front of him again, his face revealing a hidden struggle, and I wait for him to go on. "He was one of my men at the front - in fact he saved my life on one occasion."

I know he will never reveal the story, he won't talk of that time at all, no matter how hard I've tried to wrench it from him.

"What is his name?"

"Kylo Ren."

I raise my eyebrows, it's an unusual name, like my own I suppose. It almost sounds gyptian like I suspect mine to be.

"I didn't know we were in need of a new man," I say.

"Well maybe we aren't," he smiles faintly, "but Chewie is getting older and could do with some assistance, although he'd never concede to it, and Ren has struggled to secure employment. He wrote to ask for my help, hoping I could put in a good word somewhere." He shakes his head. "So many of our good soldiers turned away now as if they were dirty animals." He pauses. "I owe him my life - I must help him."

"Yes," I would like to stroke Ben's cheek or kiss his crown but I remain in my chair.

"He...he is a difficult man."

"Ha," I laugh, "So were you once!"

But his face remains somber and I wonder just what kind of man this Ren can be.

…

The first time I see him is in my rose garden. It's my piece of the grounds, my sanctuary, my flowers and I find him hacking them down with wild swings of a scythe. The movement is violent and careless and rage boils in my gut.

"Stop!" I shout, running quickly towards him. He doesn't hear. "Stop that!"

He halts, dropping his arms and turning to face me.

I see it immediately. The likeness. My breath whipped from my lungs. So like Ben. So like he once was.

Tall, broad and strong. Brooding eyes, crooked nose and full mouth. 

There are a few differences. His skin tanned a shade darker than Ben's pale, his thick black hair long to his chin and his face stubbled. A line runs from beneath his right eye to his chin, slicing his face in half like a fissure in the shell of an egg. Our men all have their scars - some more visible than others. And there's an amusement dancing in his eyes, mocking me already.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I yell, surveying my ruined plants.

His gaze travels slowly, languidly down my body, and his arm twitches, before he knocks the cap off his head.

"M'lady?" he asks.

I nod. "Ren, I assume."

He stares hard into my eyes in a manner that has me looking away to the ground. "I was pruning the roses."

"Nobody touches these but me."

He frowns. "You've neglected them."

"Excuse me." I draw myself up straight, shocked to be spoken to in this manner.

"They needed cutting back."

"You've ruined them!" I spit.

"You dont mollycolly roses," he says, slowly as if I'm a child. "You have to treat them rough. Shear them right back. Make them suffer. then they come back stronger, more beautiful."

His voice is deep like Ben's, although his words are less refined, not clipped, they rumble in his strong chest, the buttons of his jacket straining.

There's a threat there, I'm sure, a warning. One I fail to grasp.

The spring sunshine has brought the arrival of wild flowers; buttercups, daisies and cowslips scatter across the lawn and around the hedgerow. Above us the trees wear fresh lime leaves and the bluebells crouch in their shadows. The whispers of dandelion clocks float in the air between us. 

"Leave them alone," I tell him and he replaces his cap and stalks away before I dismiss him.

…

The next time we meet is on the edge of the grounds, when the sun hovers low in the sky, barely above the horizon, and the land is streaked with long fingers of gold.

I spot him in the distance, pacing backwards and forwards across the overgrown grass with the mower. He's removed his shirt and I can see the definition of his muscles, the way they flex as he jerks the machine before him, his arms bulging with the effort.

The sight makes me pause, and then scurry to hide behind a tree, not wanting him to see. 

He stops too, reaching to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and scrub it along his damp brow. 

I slide around the tree, my hands brushing over the rough bark to my back, allowing him to discover me.

Our gaze meet, and then again his slides achingly down my body, taking in my small breasts, my pinched waist and curved hips. I shiver, closing my eyes to the treacherous desire awakening within.

When I dare to open them, he's staring wolfishly, like he knows he could run me down and devour me. I skewer my nails into the wood, wanting the pain of splinters in my skin, and then I stride away, knowing he's watching me go.

…

He's everywhere. When I turn a corner. When I open a door. When I look out of my window. When I close my eyes.

His dark eyes, his dangerous looks. Following my movements relentlessly.

May melts to June. The days grow warmer. Stretching out endlessly. Drowning me. Hot and sticky. Until I struggle to breathe.

I can't stand it and I flee to the river, down in the valley at the edge of the woods, unwinding my hair, stripping bare and plunging into the cool waters. Submerging completely into the murkiness where the weeds flow thick, then floating on my back, staring blankly at the cloudless sky. I stay there until my teeth rattle and I climb out reluctantly, not bothering to dry before I dress, and drag myself back to the house, my skirt heavy with water.

My eyes are fixed to the ground ahead, my mind lost to my thoughts, and so I don't see him. Not until he's right there. His face showing he's as startled as I am.

My chestnut hair drips down my shoulders, my skin glistens, and my plain white dress sticks to my body, turning translucent and revealing the shape of my breasts and the darkness of my hardened nipples.

Any other servant would avert their gaze, pretend they'd not seen. But not Kylo. 

He growls, his hand tight on the spade at his shoulder, his jaw twitching and his dark eyes flooding with lust as he stares openly at my chest.

I lift my chin with defiance. Determined I won't be cowed by him.

We stay there frozen in a battle of wills. Neither wanting to give ground to the other. 

Crack

A gun sounds in the distance and he jolts. His face whitening. He looks away in shame, and I wonder if he suffers as Ben does. Then he's gone.

….

"I've seen the way he looks at you."

I look up from the letter I'm writing. I hadn't been aware Ben was watching me. He sits back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms, rolling his spectacles between his fingers.

"Who?" I ask, putting down my pen, clear from the expression on his face this is some matter of importance.

"Ren."

I start. It is all the confirmation he needs that I know what he means, but I pick up my pen anyway, scanning my eyes back over the page to find my place. "I have no idea-"

"I've seen you looking at him too."

My eyes flick to his face and I will myself desperately not to colour. "Ben."

"I see it clearly. He wants you and you want him."

"No!" I say firmly, shaking my head violently. "No!"

"Yes," he says, his voice steady and calm. "I may be a cripple Rey, but I am not blind."

Rising from my seat, I rush forward, dropping to my knees before him.

"I love you Ben, only you. It is you I want."

"I love you too, my darling, with all my heart." He swallows. "But I can't give you what you need. We both know that."

Tears slide down my cheeks and I feel them drip onto my collar bone. "You can! If you would only touch me, kiss me, hold me." I grab his hands up in my own, kissing his knuckles with fever.

He inhales slowly, and through my tears I think I see a wetness in his own eyes. He's never cried. Despite everything, he never has.

"I can't darling. I wish I could," his brow creases, "because I want to please you. I want to make you happy. But that part of me has died and," he turns his head away from me and clears his throat, "the thought of it is too painful, a reminder of everything I have lost."

"You haven't lost me," I whisper, squeezing his hands.

"But I can't give you everything. I can't give you what I once could so easily," he squeezes my hand back with such force I think my fingers may break. But I welcome the hurt, my shoulders shaking as my tears turn to shuddering sobs that wrack my whole body. "Don't ask it of me, please, Rey," he pleads softly.

I drop my head to his lap and weep.

"But Ren can give you these things," he says.

"No!" I wail.

"It is why I asked him. I brought him for you, to give him to you."

I can't hear this. I rock my wet face from side to side, trying to knock the words from my ears. "No!"

"Yes, Rey." He pulls his hands sharply from mine. "I will command it of him."

I slide from his lap and crumple onto the floor, wrapping my arms around myself.

"It is what you need," he says tenderly, "what you want. I know this because I know you and I will make it happen because I love you."

There's the sound of him shuffling in his seat, righting the clothes I've disheveled.

"Now get up, darling. The servants can't see you like that."

I drag myself to sitting, wiping away the tears with the back of my hands, my body still trembling. Then slowly I stand on weak legs and stumble to the door, wanting to be away. When I reach the doorway, Ben calls,

"I will tell Ren."

For the rest of the day, I hide myself away in my bedroom, tossing and turning on the bed, my eyes red raw from the tears I've cried.

I'm grieving. Finally grieving what's been lost between us. I'd hung on to the hope that somehow we'd return to that passion we'd had, that it would be different, but there again. And now I know it can never be. Ben has snatched that glimmer of hope from me and buried it in the graveyard of the past.

But terror also keeps me in my room. I'm scared to leave my room, or the house, petrified I'll encounter Kylo. If Ben has done as he said, granted his permission, then Kylo will be after me like a bloodhound who's been given a scent. And yet the thought of him chasing me down and taking me, has me clawing at my own flesh. It's the other reason I've locked the door - to keep him out and to keep me in, to prevent myself from running to him. Instead I lie in this bed, sweat streaming down my body as I work my fingers between my legs, images racing through my mind of Kylo, of Ben, of Kylo, of Ben. Kylo. Ben. Kylo. Ben. kylobenkylobenkyloben. And me.

The next day comes, and I remain in my room. Outside the window the sun rises high into the sky, loitering there, before diving back down. Bird song fills the air at first light with an optimistic enthusiasm, only to fade gradually away, and reignite with rueful sadness in the evening. I hear the servants rattling trays, hurrying up steps, whispering to one another, and somewhere out there in the gardens I hear him, his saw fierce against a tree trunk, the strokes rhythmic and powerful.

My heart thuds. Time's distorted. I'm a prisoner foolishly believing my execution will never come.

But in the evening there's a knock on the door.

"M'lady." It's Ben's man, Hux. "Are you well?" 

I don't answer.

"The master is concerned about you. He insists you come to dinner. That you eat." The man hesitates. "He commands it."

It's time. I pull myself up and throw on a dress, run a comb through my hair and splash cold water on my face.

Ben chats merrily at dinner, clearly determined to blow my blue mood away. He tells me of the news from the Estate, reads me a story from the newspaper he thinks I will find interesting, orders my favourite dessert. The topic of our previous day's discussion will not be raised again.

….

The anticipation of what's to come has me weak with need. My mind unable to focus, my fingers restless. I wait for him to come, to claim his prize, to have me. I wait and I wait. 

In the end it is I who seeks him out, unable to wait a moment longer.

That first time it is rough, both of us needing to eradicate all we've been fighting. He knows what I've come for as soon as I find him in a wrecked part of the garden - it's clear in my eyes. He flips me around, crushing my body against the wall, his fist twisting in my hair, his other hurrying to lift my skirt. There's no declarations of love, no kisses or caresses. His mouth at my ear whispers filth, tells me how much I want this, how wet I am, how he will take me with everything he has. 

And then he drives inside. He's big, wide and long, and the stretch is both pleasurable and painful. He doesn't wait while I catch my breath, pounding into me like the untameable animal he is. 

We're hidden by the vines growing overhead, rutting in the shadows with the air around us dank and rotten.

My face scrapes against the sharp stone, my hair pinches at my neck and his fingers dig into my hip. 

It's dirty. Sordid. 

I don't care. I'm reborn. Alive after a cold, sunless winter.

….

That night I cut my hair. Hacking at the tangled tresses with scissors until it skims my chin. My head feels lighter and freer, my jawline stark and my cheekbones sharp. I twist in the mirror examining myself and then I crouch by the fireplace, digging in the ashes until I find a piece of grey charcoal. I smear my fingers with the dust and brush it carefully over my eyelids, and around the far corners of each eye like I've seen in the magazines. The hazel eyes of my reflection are striking. It is not me. It is some other creature.

….

Ben knows. I can read it in his face, as he can in mine. We don't speak of it but it lingers in the air between us like smoke from a cigarette. If I stood up could I waft it away with my hands or blow it with a puff of my lips?

No, what's done is done. There is no going back now. Like before - no regrets.

We receive our guests, sipping gin cocktails on the patio, the evening saltry. The talk is slow, movement lumbered. I twist a string of pearls around my fingers, crunching them together.

I wonder where Kylo is. If he's alone. If there are other women.

I wonder if I care. Why I feel no guilt. Only numbness. I am an adulteress. I have betrayed my husband, yet I feel nothing but boredom.

It's dull. The people are dull. The talk is dull. I sit at dinner in silence waiting for it to end.

Later, when our guests have gone, and the house is empty and black, Ben captures my wrist. I can't see him. There's just his voice.

"Darling. There can be no child." He runs his thumb over my pulse point.

I'm greedy for his touches. I always will be - as innocent as they are. And I wilt slightly.

"You're still mine," he whispers. Is it a question or an order?

"Always," I say, lifting his hand to my lips and kissing his palm.

….

The next time it is Kylo who finds me. Striding into the hot house where I am cutting flowers for the tables.

He holds out his hand.

"Come with me, woman," he commands.

I make him wait, placing down my secateurs and removing my gloves. His brow creases and he shifts his weight impatiently from one foot to another.

Then cautiously I offer my hand and he tugs me towards him, his other hand locking around the back of my neck and kissing me hard, fervently, eating me up with his plush lips, his tongue tasting me. I match him, my kiss just as feverish, my cunt already throbbing for him. I lead his hand to my breast and he squeezes the swell with his fingers. I moan into his mouth and he pushes my body backwards onto the tressel table, sweeping away the potted plants, and lying me down flat.

"You're a thing of beauty - you need care and tending." He unbuttons my blouse and bares my breasts, his hot mouth finding my nipples. I arch my back pressing my breast firm against his lips, shuddering as he flicks the hardened peak of my nipple with his tongue, and bites it softly. His hands creep up my legs, stroking the sensitive skin of my thighs above my stockings. "And you need this. He said you were needy but I already knew. I saw it the first time I met you, how much you needed seeing to."

"Don't speak of him," I say, suddenly angry, scrabbling to sit up. "We don't speak of him." I thump my fist against his hard chest. "Ever."

"You love him?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, unable to meet Kylo's eyes, uncurling my fingers and splaying them on his ribs, feeling the thud of his heart. "We belong to one another."

He leans into my touch. "But not when you're with me." The weight of him on my arm, forces me back down and then he kneels, dragging my skirt up to my waist and ripping off my underwear, leaving me utterly exposed. "He can have your heart," he says, his mouth so close to my cunt I feel his hot breath there. "This part is mine." His tongue drags along my seam and I'm unable to argue. The feel of it is too divine. No one else has touched this since before the war, so many years ago. I want it so badly I could scream. I have no dignity, no manners. I grip his hair and beg and plead for it. 

His tongue flickers over the sensitive nub at the apex of my legs, then swirls around it, bringing me so close, before drifting away. My eyes tear in frustration, the feeling growing stronger and stronger each time, my blouse sticking to my sweat dampened chest in the heat of this greenhouse, bright rays reflecting in the warped glass panes around us. 

He ventures a finger inside the next time I come close and I hear myself scream at the sensation, the tip finding a point that has me thrusting against his hand, riding his finger.

"Say you're mine, little flower. Say it and I'll take you there." 

"I can't!" I cry, scraping my nails into his scalp.

"Shhh," He rests his hand on my belly, calming me, holding me still. "Hush, little one." His tone is gentler.

Then his tongue returns to his work, his fingers relentless and the feeling rises and rises and rises, my breath catches in my throat, my eyes screw shut, my belly pulls tight, and then I explode, ecstasy blowing right through my body. And I am boneless. Limp. Lifeless.

In a moment, he's sliding in easily, I'm so wet, lifting my bottom half off the table with his strong arms. I watch him as he pounds, his wicked eyes locked on mine, his arms and chest taut with the effort of holding me, his hair falling into his face, his mouth wet with my arousal.

I'm so sensitive that I easily tip over the edge a second time, moaning loudly as I do and he follows me with a stutter that vibrates the table, his eyes rolling back in their sockets and his jaw relaxing as he sighs in bliss.

He lowers me down but I dont move, sprawled out below him.

"Get up," he barks, his lip curling in disgust. "Don't lie like that...you look...you look," he turns his head away but takes my hand and hauls me up, "dead." And I wonder what memories he's reliving.

I sit on the table and lower my skirt, doing up my buttons.

He's tying up a rubber, wrapping it in a cloth and stuffing it in his pocket. Only then do I remember Ben's condition. I'd forgotten, lost to the moment. Thank goodness Kylo has more sense.

"I'm sorry," he says when he's done, "for what I said. I should not have asked that of you. Lord Solo is a good man - you are his wife - and I would not steal from him."

"No one owns me but me," I say jumping down. "I make my own decisions."

He grins and nods his head. "Yes, m'lady." He says it like he's humouring me. Like I'm a little pet.

I scowl at him and walk away angry, as much with myself as him.

Why do I have this need? One that has me betraying my husband (even if it is with his blessing). There are many wives I've met who appear unsatisfied, their husbands old or absent or engaged with lovers elsewhere. They appear content, not restless and hungry like I am.

I find Ben in his room. He's dressed in just his trousers with a towel draped around his shoulders as his man lathers soap on his face ready for his morning shave. His legs may be useless and weak but his upper half is as strong and defined as it ever was. 

"Thank you Hux, I will take it from here," I say as I slink into the room.

Hux's eyes dart to his master who nods, and he wipes his hands on the towel laid out by the bowl of warm water and the razor.

"Good morning Sunshine," Ben smiles as I sit on his lap, taking the blade in my hand and lifting his chin with the other.

I don't answer, concentrating as I run the blade down his cheek, sweeping a line through the foam, the thick bristles of his face scraping as I do. Then I swipe the razor through the warm water, removing the smear of white suds and dark stubs of hair, before repeating the action.

His hand comes to rest on my waist, holding me steady as I work, and I hear the whistle of his breath, feel the brush of it over my face, and his scent - fresh and clean. Like lemons and honey. So different from Kylo's heavy earthy smell. 

I falter slightly when I think of that and he cradles my face, searching my eyes.

"You smell of sex," he tells me.

And I nod, sure I must blush to be so easily found out.

"Did he...hurt you?"

"No." I sigh, removing his hand so I can continue my task. "Turn your face, Ben."

He waits while I shave the left side of his face, then he turns his head to face me again. 

"If he hurts you, I will kill him," he whispers with such force I have no doubt that he would, his grip at my waist a tad tight. 

My eyes flick to his in astonishment, suddenly clear what he's driving at. "You want me to...tell you about it?"

He holds my gaze. "Yes."

"Ben!" I cry, trying to leap away but he keeps me in place.

"I didn't think I would want to know a thing. But now I find I do. I need to know."

"I can't do that to you Ben." My voice cracks, the razor shaking in my hand.

"Tell me where he touched you, how he touched you, how he had you."

These men, demanding of me, always demanding of me. And yet somehow it seems I can refuse neither of them.

I grasp his chin, yanking it upwards and drag the blade down his neck, over his jugular as I tell him everything.

….

I avoid Kylo for a week, wanting to punish him for a crime I can't describe, wanting to ensure he's as needy as me when we meet again.

He tries more than once to lure or to grab me, but each time I fight him off. Refusing to speak with him or to let him touch. The anger rises in him and the frustration and I'm pleased by it.

Finally, he corners me, pouncing as I walk down the lane towards the village on my way to lunch with the ladies of the parish. I wonder if it's luck on his part or if he'd lain in wait.

"You've been avoiding me," he growls, emerging from the trees that line the path and blocking the road.

I frown at him, haughtily. "Yes."

He steps towards me, and when I don't flinch, he steps again, leaning down so his mouth is right by my face. I keep completely still, although my heart pounds in my chest.

"Ha. You had an itch and now it's been satisfied," he spits, his breath coming hard down my ear, "So you thought you'd just discard me like the rubbish you think I am."

I turn my head slowly to glower at him and then I snarl, "I was not satisfied."

He snatches at my shoulder, his finger drawing along my collar bone. "You sounded entirely satisfied to me. Whining on the end of my cock like a bitch in heat."

I should slap him for that. I could have him dismissed for it. But instead I melt under his touch, wanting that filthy mouth on me. I am weak. 

I am weak and thoughtless. I have not considered the consequences. My passions have run away with me, and my heart and my head are only now catching up. The guilt of my betrayal, the cause of my anger. 

But it's not that. It's not guilt. It's the way these men are pulling me in different directions. My heart and my mind wanting Ben, my body wanting Kylo. 

These men will tear me in half.

He's kissing my neck, here in the open where anyone can see us. But I don't care. The way he drags his teeth over my skin, bites at the dip of my shoulder, constrains my arms in his tight grasp, is divine. 

"Tell me to stop and I will," he dares in his gruff voice.

But I can't. I can't make him stop. I don't want to.

"I'm taking you to bed," he says, leading me off the path and into the woods. The light under the trees is gloomy as we walk through the undergrowth, brambles scratching at my legs and catching on my skirt. He doesn't slow when I welp at a thorn that draws blood or when I'm yanked back by a branch. He marches on regardless, dragging me deeper beneath the gnarled old oaks and the straight backed ash, the light giving way to darkness. Dead leaves crunch under our feet and a creature rustles in a patch of nettles growing under a rotting trunk. Above us a wood pigeon coos like a ghost and a grey squirrel leaps from one branch to another. In the distance bees hum ominously.

"Where are we going?" I pant, struggling for breath as I strive to keep pace with him.

"I told you: bed," he says, as he pulls me into a dingy clearing where a stone cottage nestles in the green. It's old and squat, roses creeping up it's whitewashed walls and framing the wooden door and the one crisscrossed window. The roof pitches low and a lone chimney crouches in its centre. A low wall circles the cottage against which his tools rest and three dead rabbits hang, their glassy eyes staring at me blankly as we pass through the small gap and into his house.

The front room is also the bedroom, a bed and chest of drawers to one side and a rocking chair and table to the other. On top of the table sit rows of neatly carved animals (a squirrel, a robin, a fox and a duck), blocks of untouched wood and a chisel and a knife. Wood shavings litter the table top and the floor. There's a door at the back of the room and I can see it leads to a second grubbier room with a stove and a sink.

The house is dark, little light filtering through the one window, and the room smells of wood and smoke.

"On the bed," he snaps and I shake my head.

Instead, I remove my hat and my gloves, placing them neatly together on the chest of drawers. I turn to face him, holding his eye as I step out of my shoes, then bend down to lift my skirt and unhook my stockings from their suspenders, rolling the silky material down one leg, then the other.

He hisses as his eyes grow darker and he palms himself through his trousers.

Next I let my fingers skip down the buttons of my blouse opening it to reveal the cream silk camisole I wear beneath, the curve of my breasts clear through the clingy material and I reach around to unfasten my skirt, wiggling it over my hips before it falls to the floor. 

"Those off too m'lady," he says gesturing to my underwear as he wrenches off his belt with a whack and pulls down his trousers and his underwear; his dark cock stiff and ready. He holds it in his hand, stroking backward and forward as he watches me unhook the thin straps of my top and let it slither away before I step out of my undergarments, completely bare in front of him.

He swears under his breath. I may be a lady but I'm not unaccustomed to foul language, in my early years us orphans were called all sorts of things, yet it still makes me blush to hear him say them, heat rising in my cheeks. Everything sounds dirtier on his tongue.

"You're so beautiful." His eyes roam my body tantalisingly slowly, soaking up every part. "Now come here."

As I come, he lifts off his shirt and he's naked too, towering above me, everything about him so much bigger than I am. I feel as if he could break me and the thought has me throbbing for him, something in my belly skipping in anticipation.

He doesn't touch but examines me more closely, like a plant he's considering how to treat. Will he cut me down or let me grow?

"Don't ever ignore me again," it's half order, half plea. His hand back on his cock.

I'm breathless and dizzy with want, desperate for him to touch me. And still he watches, still deciding.

"Fuck woman," he mutters and I close my eyes as he cradles my head and kisses me with such tenderness I think I might weep. It's done with attention and care, caressing my lips like he's worshipping them. I could get lost in these kisses, swept away by them, time simply meaningless as I drown in the feel of his soft lips, his wet tongue and his warm breath.

When finally he releases me I'm giddy and lightheaded and his eyes are full of an emotion I cant decipher. "Kylo," I whisper. It's the first time I've uttered his name.

"Sweet little flower. Beautiful sweet little flower."

Gently he lies me back on the bed, the cover rough on my back and the mattress hard as wooden planks, the springs protruding into my spine. He trails a finger from the tip of my forehead down my nose, over my lips and my chin and throat, along the rise of my breast and the crown of my nipple, tracing each rib and the softness of my belly, twisting in the course hairs between my thighs and then sweeping down my thigh, my calf and finally to my foot, tickling the sole and ending at the tip of my toe. His eyes follow the moment of his hand with reverence and the lightness of his touch has my skin prickling, like he is a match and I the tinder box, his action igniting a fire. dampness pools between my legs, the smell of both our arousal heavy in the air between us.

His brow creases with feeling as he bends down to kiss me and I open my legs as he comes to rest above me , supporting his weight so as not to crush me. His hard cock nudges at my entrance and I buck up allowing him to push his way in, his hips soon flush against mine. It's more intimate than the other times, I feel more exposed, both my body and my soul, his eyes searching mine as he rolls his hard body into mine, grinding himself. He makes love to me with his whole body, with dedication, like he wants to prove to me how good this can be.

And it is. It is good. 

He reaches deep inside finding the spot that drives me wild and grazing against my sensitive nub. His eyes still watching me, clearly enjoying observing how I respond to the actions of his body.

I hold on to him, fearing I'm melting away, my mind giving way to my body, the sounds from my throat animalistic and raw, my cunt clenched around him and then I'm free, every thought leaving my head, every tension evaporating away, just ecstasy, bliss, heaven. I suck at him violently as the jolts of pleasure shoot through, I lead him to Paradise and he joins me with one shuddering groan.

Afterwards, we lie in his narrow bed, entwined and damp with sweat. He strokes my belly and I drift into sleep, full and contented.

…. 

When I wake much later, he's still lost in sleep, utterly exhausted by all he's given. I untangle myself from him and dress quietly in the fading light. 

He's less of a monster when he's dozing. The usual violence of his body, the threatening glint in his eyes, gone. He's just a man like any other. Vulnerable, alone, beautiful. 

I walk back through the forest and the gardens, the evening's light rapidly fading from grey to black, the Manor lit up invitingly in the distance. The house is silent when I enter and creep up the stairs, stopping outside Ben's door. He sits in his night clothes on the bed reading by the mellow light of his lamp.

"Hello darling," I say and he lifts his gaze and smiles warmly at me, patting the space beside him.

I kick off my shoes and climb in next to him, curling up against his familiar body. He wraps his arm around me and kisses the crown of my head.

I must smell like Kylo and the damp and smoke of his house but this time Ben does not comment on it.

"What are you reading?" I ask him.

"Poetry. There's one that reminded me of you."

"Me?"

"Yes - it's about home and belonging and finding the light in your life."

I smile into his chest, loving his warmth, the way his baritone voice vibrates in his chest. 

I was wrong, I think. These two men won't tear me apart. No, maybe these two men together will make me whole.

"Read it to me," I say.


End file.
